


i enjoyed and i devoured

by worry



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Choking, M/M, Porn with some plot, i have never written this kind of thing Ever. be nice, keep kinking old man (kink the whole night through)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:11:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8140210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worry/pseuds/worry
Summary: Anatole’s hand reaches up and slowly wraps around his neck; Dolokhov lets it happen, lets himself be pushed into the stone wall of his study. He never thought it could all be this cold – the wall, Anatole’s body, the air. All just cold.Anatole’s eyes are – red. Blood-red, for a moment, like a gift, until his face buries into Dolokhov’s neck. It should be concerning. It should terrify. But, see: he has wanted this since the beginning of time, since creation and uncovering.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Completely unrelated to my other vamp au fic. I just love vampires, okay?

On their first meeting, Anatole looked like skin-and-bone, looked like gold, looked like something sickly walking, looked like – hm – an opportunity. An opportunity.

 

Anatole, sick and golden like the rare sun, was an opportunity, and Dolokhov dug into this like a predator. Teeth and all. The whole parts of him.

 

What he hadn’t expected in pursuing this was love.

 

It’s easy, see, to play games. Hold hands in circles. Drink until your eyes go black, like a monster’s. Roll the dice, pray to your God. It’s all easy. See. It’s easy, see. Easier than love. Wrap your fingers around that Vodka bottle and ignore the way that they tremble – it’s from the cold. Just another ghost of cold. Just another ghost of love, and shaking.

 

In this world, this kind of love just hurts. There’s something about the way that Anatole indulges himself that makes Dolokhov’s fingers curl in anger. _It should be—_

None of that matters. On their first meeting, Anatole looked like a game, and looked at Dolokhov like his entire life was a game and they would have

so

much

_fun_

together.

 

Still.

 

Falling in love hurts a bit.

 

Not in the way that teeth hurt; it’s a different kind of hurt. It’s the kind of hurt that fills up inside of you and overflows. That kind of hurt, that terror.

 

Swallowing down this hurt is the hardest thing that he has ever had to endure, but Dolokhov endures – it is, perhaps, the only thing he’s truly _good_ at.

                                                                                       

* * *

 

 

The first time they kiss it’s like the kind of sunlight that Dolokhov has never seen: the light from the sun so powerful that you bathe in it, the light so powerful that it burns and burns and burns and leaves you thinking _more._ More. More. Hm.

 

“How long have you thought about doing this,” Anatole whispers into the air as Dolokhov kisses, nips at his neck like a starving, starving man. This is what love has reduced him to.

 

“Since,” he replies, voice quiet and so low that it makes Anatole nearly _shiver,_ “the first time we met.”

 

“You wanted me for that long?”

 

“I feel like I’ve wanted you since the beginning of time, Anatole.”

 

Anatole pulls him closer, breathes, breathes, and rolls his hips up. Buries himself into Dolokhov, who laughs; he didn’t think it would be this easy, but what a sight it is. Anatole, beautiful, grinding into him.

 

And, suddenly: “Stop. Dolokhov, stop.”

 

Dolokhov swallows, trembles, but stops and untangles from Anatole. It’s almost dreamlike, Anatole’s face and the hunger on it. Everything in his dreams.

 

Anatole’s hand reaches up and slowly wraps around his neck; Dolokhov lets it happen, lets himself be pushed into the stone wall of his study. He never thought it could all be this cold – the wall, Anatole’s body, the air. All just cold.

 

Anatole’s eyes are – red. Blood-red, for a moment, like a gift, until his face buries into Dolokhov’s neck. It should be concerning. It should terrify. But, see: he has wanted this since the beginning of time, since creation and uncovering.

 

Something sharp digs into his skin. Anatole’s hand, still wrapped around his neck, grows tighter, tighter, _tighter._ Dolokhov could die here, next to Anatole, and it would be a beautiful death.

 

“Is this okay?” breathes Anatole, and God, Heaven, that _voice…_

“Shut up,” he replies, tugging at the end of Anatole’s shirt.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

 

His hand loosens and Dolokhov can breathe, fully, once again. It’s not a particularly wonderful feeling, actually; he’s gasping and that feeling of fear-and-love is gone.

 

“Put it back.”

 

Anatole laughs, muffled, and obliges.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, two _horrible_ days later, and Anatole is fucking into him so _beautifully,_ like some kind of painting on a canvas, like something that should go down in history. Dolokhov and Anatole and this beautiful feeling in the books, on the walls. People centuries after this will wonder what it’s like – this beauty.

 

The two days previous to this had been filled with silence. Dolokhov, filled with longing, and Anatole, filled with fear.

 

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. This morning he was walking through with his uniform undone and Anatole _snapped._ Oh, the feeling of Anatole kissing him again, their skin meeting—

 

He will remember this.

 

Anatole’s hands on his hips, rough. It’ll leave a bruise, surely, but he doesn’t mind; he has longed for that kind of bruise since – the beginning of time, since the apple.

 

“Do you mind,” Anatole breathes, “if I try something?”

 

“I don’t mind at all, just—“

 

“Just?”

 

“Just…”

 

His hands are on the back of Dolokhov’s neck before anything else can be spoken, and Anatole’s nails are _sharp._

 

“Just tell me if you want me to stop.”

 

Anatole kisses it, and-

 

and then-

 

Oh, he _bites._ His teeth are sharper, somehow, than his nails, and when Dolokhov feels the blood running from the wound, Anatole licking it like some animalistic thing, he breaks. Comes underneath Anatole from his movements and the feeling of his own blood. This – this should be wrong, he thinks, you’re not supposed to feel like this, ever, but there are very few things in his life that are as good as this. As good as Anatole, inside of him, as good as _blood_ and Anatole’s tongue.

 

Anatole follows.

 

* * *

 

“You _drank_ my _blood,_ ” he says, head on Anatole’s chest.

 

“And you liked it,” Anatole reminds him.

 

“I suppose I did.”

 

There’s silence, again. Anatole traces patterns into his skin, like a dream. Again: history. Again: beauty.

 

“You’re beautiful,” Dolokhov whispers, finally, “you know? I think I love you.”

 

“Yes,” Anatole says, but it’s hesitant. “I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

 

The feeling of Anatole’s hands will never leave him. Anatole’s fingers locked with his. Anatole’s hands on his jaw, Anatole’s hands on his chest, Anatole’s hands all over him until everything blurs into one grating _feeling._ So pure that it almost hurts. Hands and knees – _pain._ Anatole’s back against that same wall, Anatole’s fingers in his hair – _pain._ This thing inside of him, growing beautiful like something to be observed, making it all end.

 

There are some truly _disgusting_ things leaving Anatole’s lips. His fingers curl harder; his nails are _sharp,_ like those of a monster, but it doesn’t matter. Enjoys it, even. He’d tell Anatole how _wrong_ it all is, if he could. _Get those words out of your mouth. Leave God out of this._

But he loves Anatole, and love is something different.

 

Something blooming.

 

(Anatole comes into his mouth and the word _God_ never leaves his mind. God. God. God. Just like the hands that never leave him. _Blooming._ )

* * *

He’s reading and Anatole pushes himself through Dolokhov’s arms, snakes into him.

 

“Anatole,” he says, refusing to put the book down, “this is horribly distracting.”

 

“It’s a good distraction, though.”

 

“Yes, a good distraction.”

 

“Can I tell you something,” Anatole whispers, right into his neck. His breath has never been warm.

 

“Anything.”

 

“I’m a monster,” he says. “I could hurt you. I am afraid that I will hurt you, and then this will all be over. I think this is the first love I’ve ever felt.”

 

He takes Anatole’s hands and places them at his waist. “I know,” he says. “I know you’re something different, but you won’t hurt me. I know that you won’t hurt me.”

 

“Do you still love me?” Anatole says. Hands, again.

 

“Of course,” Dolokhov says. “You could be anything and I’d still love you.”

 

“Good,” Anatole breathes.

 

His teeth scrape against Dolokhov’s skin, but never sink.

 

They will never, ever sink.

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me what you think i've Never written nsfw Ever in my Life


End file.
